


say you love me still

by rosannabytoto, vastwaters



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Headcanon, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosannabytoto/pseuds/rosannabytoto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vastwaters/pseuds/vastwaters
Summary: miscommunication aside, sakusa's episodes slowly become too much for atsumu to bear in addition to his controlling tendencies. though, he ends up regretting everything said and done.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 111





	say you love me still

**Author's Note:**

> Important note: Slightly headcanon based in which Chip aka the co-author rosannabytoto headcanons that Sakusa has OCD outside of his germaphobia. At certain days, it's particularly bad.
> 
> Hi everyone! Here is the breakup thread I was talking about, written by me and Chip! Enjoy!

He doesn’t know what’s playing in his head, brain echoes the same thoughts, patterns, scenarios of their life being broken into or one of them getting sick, one of them having to call an ambulance, something bad happening…

_Something, something, SOMETHING_ _._

He doesn’t want to do this, but he feels like he has to. Every rotation, every wipe, every second, everything counted. If Sakusa wasn’t chewing on his cheeks, he’d be muttering every number but it’d come out in a garbled mess : _thirty - three steps, fourteen rotations, twenty - nine seconds –––––––wait, it’s been longer._

_fuck._ __

_start from the top._ __

_one, two, three. Four, five, six._ __

_seven, seven, sev ––––– no, seve ––––– no. No_ _._

_Seven_ _. Eight. Nine. Seven, seven, seven._

His brows knit into a frown, ‘Seven. Eight, nine,’ it trails into muttering then silence, it wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. He had to start over.

Sakusa was hyperaware of his boyfriend, every step interrupting his counting. It was tense, making him tense, wearing on his patience and he felt bad for it. He tried to do everything away from Atsumu, stay away from him so he didn’t get in the way. But he stood in the kitchen, where he needed to go, Sakusa’s eyes kept switching between where he was being urged to go and the table he was wiping. 

Why. Why today?

Waking up later than he usually did. That was the spark, that’s all he needed. His stomach dropped at the 6:03, that three caused his mind to go into a spiral; everything would go wrong. He’d be late for everything, traffic’s heavier, there’s going to be more people at the station than usual, he’s going to get sick, get hurt and that wound will get infected and he’ll never play volleyball again.

Atsumu’ll get sick, he’ll end up in the hospital and he’d be the reason why. It rakes in his mind and the only solution is to clean, clean, clean. Fix, move, work, control everything, check everything.

‘Move.’

Fingers twitched at his sides as he paced in the living room, counting every step while he replayed that scene in his head once more. Hands start to fidget and brought to his lips where he tries to find any edge of dry skin to pick at, needing to. Sakusa finds himself unsuccessful as his boyfriend’s voice pipes up and drags him away from the urges.

He was at wits’ end. They were at wits’ end.

‘Fuckin’ shit.’

Kiyoomi had been acting rather weird ever since the morning, sucking in his teeth and recounting the rotations in which he wiped the table. He continuously insisted in redoing everything Atsumu cleaned and had been far more on edge than usual. He had noticed how the skin between his fingers had gone red and tender, patches of rough skin which stood to be a stark contrast to an otherwise pale canvas.

_‘Move, move.’_

_‘Omi?’_

_‘Just, move out of the way Atsumu, I need to do something.’_

_‘Let’s calm down ‘nd sit down for a moment. You can do this later. Here, let me-’_

_‘Don’t touch me!’_

_Atsumu had flinched at the slight raise in his words and had backed against the kitchen counter where a plate had teetered onto the edge. The shatter of ceramic followed and a fight soon after. He had instructed Kiyoomi to go to the living room as he took care of the mess, careful not to cut himself in the process._

‘I can’t do this, I just can’t.’

His fingers were deeply tousled into his blonde, unkempt tresses, disheveled strands framing the frown that was furrowed deep between his eyebrows.

‘It’s t’much, I never know what’s ‘bout to happen, never know when ya might snap.’

Each time Atsumu had convinced himself he had seized a better understanding of Kiyoomi, he was proved otherwise. The occasional Thursdays where his boyfriend would lose his veneer of calm eventually were pulled back to Tuesdays. It had gradually gotten worse when his own personal training had required necessary adjustments and he had told Sakusa they had to have dinner at a later time. He had left his own place and schedule in favor of his boyfriend’s, surely, he could accommodate his needs for once?

Atsumu ended up throwing about his own personal schedule so he could be home in time for dinner.

All those small adjustments eventually piled up into a heap of emotional distress which resulted in fraying caused by the smallest of trivialities. Each day that presented an inconvenience, Atsumu had begun to doubt permanence of their relationship. Kiyoomi only had to look at him in a different manner and Atsumu registered nothing but anxiety and fear: frightened that he would have to endure the repercussions of yet another episode, to lose his boyfriend to the claws of the disorder that had him seized.

_It wouldn’t work out._

‘It’s not workin’, Kiyoomi, it’s not workin’ out.’ He gritted his teeth, almost yanking out the hairs from their follicles. ‘I can’t— I don’t know _how_ ta make it work.’ He could not bring himself to look at him, preferring to study the carpeted floor instead.

_What_ _..._

Sakusa’s stomach drops, brows furrow.

_No, no, no. He’s... done everything, he’s done everything right,_ _right?_

He just watches, eyes focused and narrow over his features, lips tugging into a frown and Sakusa finds himself scared. Everything piling up, nothing working his way, and now this. He’s so used to having control over every aspect of his own life and he tried to do that to Atsumu, but it resulted in nothing but pain for him. And he didn’t know, genuinely, unaware. He can’t think past the needless buzzwords of negativity hounding at the edges of his mind. 

‘I’m… sorry?’ That’s not what he wanted to hear, ‘What’s not working?’ Kiyoomi’s urged to ask, ‘The relationship? The routine, what’s not working?’

It felt like a foray of questions, a lapse of in control aggravated by the deluge of inquiries. It prohibited him any room for consideration, the space in which he needed to think and muster an appropriate answer. 

_What’s not working?_

Fucking nothing is working. 

The routine was not fucking working: he hated running home to be in time for dinner and Sakusa’s indifference to his sacrifices had finally begun to catch up to him, the sour taste burning his throat every time he swallowed scathing retorts instead of voicing them.

 _It’s fine, Omi, I can run and be on time!_ He barely had the energy to pick up his fork afterward.  
_It’s just 45 minutes mom, s’fine. H_ e saw his mother less than he did all those weeks ago, no longer wanting to travel for nearly an hour.  
_Of course I’ll clean it again, don’tcha worry!_ He ended up spending far too much time on it and his boyfriend’s dissatisfaction as well as bluntness regarding his ‘nonexistent cleaning skills’ eventually had begun to hurt. Atsumu knew his cleaning skills were unmatched, but the sole fact his efforts went unappreciated afflicted him to some extent at least.

 _‘Dinner’s at seven. If you can’t make it, your plate’ll be in the microwave.’_ He did not want to eat a meal without Sakusa. After having eaten meals in the presence of loved ones for so long, Atsumu found out he could not swallow a single bite in the absence of company.

‘Nothin’s workin’, Kiyoomi, fuckin’ nothing is.’ He called him by his first name, no nicknames: a genuine suggestion that the entire endeavor distressed him. He desperately wanted to resolve it, find a solution for them. Though, there was none, none of which included them still together. ‘The routines ‘re drivin’ me crazy and you… _you_ …’

_I don’t even know anymore what you make me feel like, the apathy is killing me. Your love is my holy grail and it has become an aim forsaken. You needn’t speak to me the yearnings of your soul or what other sappy shit, but god fucking damnit, you could’ve at least showed me a little._

Something had to give and Sakusa wasn’t aware, and the way Atsumu’s acting gave him a look into what his ignorance and disregard to other people’s feelings can do to them. Blatant disregard to everything that wasn’t written, or an alarm set on his phone just adds tension to every moment. Will his alarm blare and he was taken out of any time they had together? That’s just how he worked his whole life, and he wasn’t privy to how it affects those around him.

He didn’t realize until now that it’d hurt him. Constant comparing to standards Sakusa could barely reach sometimes must wear at people, he gets it. He just didn’t get it in time. Hypersensitive to his tone, Sakusa felt like there was something digging into his pressure point at his neck, throat running dry, stomach tied into fifty knots, he doesn’t care. Not out of apathy, but because he doesn’t see what he did wrong.

When he upset someone he didn’t intend to, hurt someone’s feelings without being aware of it, it sent him into a tizzy; replaying everything to see where it started. But he couldn’t pinpoint it, which made it worse; has it always been like this?

Has Atsumu always felt this way? Just now was the breaking point? That realization made him sick, he wanted to drop in on himself, but that’s not fair to Atsumu. _Listen to him, as much as you can._

He gritted his teeth, a tooth sinking into a bottom lip with enough fervor to nearly draw blood. It had been a long time since his fuse had simmered and fizzed the way it did now, mind threatening to combust with unrestrained fury, primarily caused by himself. ‘Fuck, Kiyoomi, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.’ Hands were balled and tightly clenched into fists, the skin around his knuckles tightening. ‘I never know when you’ll be…’ A flourish of his hand, gesturing around Kiyoomi to refer to one of the episodes. ‘ _That._ ’ A sharp inhale of a breath preceded the following string of words which had been subdued for far too long. ‘‘sides, everythin’s too much. I… I gave up so much… would ‘t hurt ya to return the favor just once _?_ I knew… I knew it’d be hard but… this s’not somethin’ I can manage. This ain’t somethin’ I know how ta deal with.’

Atsumu’s gaze rested on his face, recognizing the beauty in his features: the black curl that rested against his forehead, the moles the adorned his complexion, the blackness of his irises: a breathtaking stark in difference to the paleness of his skin.

Fuck, it hurt so much. It hurt so fucking much to love something he could not understand.

The hand gesture, referring to him and his actions like “that” struck him. Sakusa wanted to retort, but it came out as a weak, ‘I don’t…’ it isn’t finished, he can’t finish the thought, the idea that he doesn’t control his mind’s ministrations isn’t an excuse, he knows, but it hurt still. Any patience he praised Atsumu for having now brought into question and it’s too much. ‘This is just… me…’

He can’t think. Just tries to listen and he does, but nothing comes out. No solutions, no real apology despite the fact that this is one of those rare times where Kiyoomi is sorry. 

_He needs to say it._ __

‘I’m sorry.’ He starts, but he doesn’t know where to guide it. Atsumu’s feelings… does he come across as though he doesn’t care? Oh, god, Atsumu’s feelings are the only ones he cares about protecting. But he’s failed at doing that. Sakusa tries to space out his thoughts so he doesn’t ramble himself into fainting, ‘I’m sorry that I… come across as if I don’t care. I, I … I do, but I don’t know how to show that.’

It lingers and he hates that it does. 

Because he knows what follows, ‘This is your limit.’ an acknowledgement; that this is the end, and Sakusa can’t put up a fight. Not because he doesn’t want to, he does, but because he doesn’t know where the first place to start is. His eyes, the most expressive part of him, just stick on him: sad, as if he watched his whole world implode on itself. Brows furrow upwards and lip trembled against Sakusa’s wish to keep neutrality. He couldn’t.  
  
‘Don’t look ‘tme like that, Kiyoomi, _don’t_.’ _Don’t make this harder for me than it already is._ ’I… I hafta go… I can’t stay… I can’t…’

And then he leaves. 

He did not grant him one last look when he walked past Kiyoomi towards the door, almost stomping and making the accessories on their coffee table rattle. He reached for the knob, opening the door, walking through, and slamming it shut behind him. The walls trembled at the impact, a framed picture which had been hanging askew came loose from the screw and dropped onto the floor. The frame cracked, glass surface breaking, though remaining intact, a sullen depiction of their relationship.

Nothing’s as deafening as the silence after the picture fell. A scream threatened to leave him, tear through his chest, but he remained quiet. Standing there with horrified eyes observing the casualty, he felt himself tumble over the edge. Motionless as everything replayed once again, trying to find any point in which he could’ve done something different to change the outcome. 

But it didn’t matter. 

And that ruined him. Uncertain steps, uncounted, and kneeling by the frame he picked it up, dark eyes welling up as the glass and wooden slats fell apart around his fingers. Flesh cut under the sharp edges of shattered glass, but he wasn’t paying attention to that; instead, he was looking at the image. 

Atsumu’s bright smile, the arm tugging him into his side with sunset behind them. His blond hair, disheveled but intentionally so, tangling with his black curls as his head rested on his. Kiyoomi can almost feel the ghost of the weight just by looking at the image. He looked so irrevocably happy, like nothing could bring him away from that. But something did, and it was Sakusa. 

He couldn’t do this. 

Blood trailed off of his finger, staining the wool carpet underneath him, and it horrified him. He kept trying to pick up the glass, but it just became a bigger mess. He felt suffocated, shaky breathing as he eventually gave up. Leaving the image, glass, and blood where it was, Sakusa sat back in front of it. For once, he lets himself cry. It was not the silent weeping he lets himself have occasionally, it was composed of quietly choked sobs and whimpering.

He felt ridiculous. 

He felt as if he had no room to cry, but not even five minutes after that door slammed shut, his aching heart couldn’t ignore it anymore. Sakusa Kiyoomi’s world just reared its ugly head, and he had to face the consequences.

The first night felt numb. There was no routine to follow, simply just… do. Which he’s never had before. Adapting a routine took time and Sakusa was used to the one with Atsumu. His eyes would check the clock and a task he wanted to do flashed in his mind. 

20:15, he’d do the dishes. 

20:25, put sheets in the washer. 

20:30, shower and have the faith that Atsumu put the sheets in the dryer. 

21:45 get the sheets out of dryer. 

Instead, he sat on the floor next to their bed with no recollection of getting there. His eyes were puffy and still full of tears. Fingers had touched the carpet, ground himself. He could feel the nothing against his skin and it itched at him.

It wasn’t often, the urge of wanting to feel something under his flesh, but now that Atsumu left, all he wanted to do was touch him again.

That evening the inky darkness had engulfed the frail night, diminishing all light and bliss that had risen with the sun: only silence lingered. Atsumu remembered the gouts of water that had poured down onto him, how his clothes had been drenched and soaked by the time he had reached Shoyo’s apartment. He recalled the aching sting in his chest, the burning of his lungs nothing compared to the manner in which his heartstrings had been pulled apart.

_‘Atsumu-san ?’_

_‘Please. Can… Can I stay the night ?’_

_‘Sure…’_

That night he had collapsed onto the couch, a blanket thrown over his body which were dressed in clothes that were far too small. _Just for the night while your clothes dry_ was what Hinata had said before leaving him be in the living room, sullen and heartbroken. He had messaged Sakusa about how Atsumu had crashed at his place for the night and it was left at that, not wanting to pry any further.

Kiyoomi’s phone buzzed.

[ CONTACT : Shoyo ] hey omi-san!! Atsumu’s here, wanted to let you know.  
[ CONTACT : Kiyoomi ] Okay. Thanks.

No further prodding, not even from himself which is unusual; the idea of sending Shoyo more texts, inquisitive and demanding, hounded his head but the wish to be alone and not talk to anyone was stronger.

Even as his fingers hovered over the ‘call’ button under his mother’s contact. She wouldn’t mind, Sakusa calling her once or twice a month whenever he got overwhelmed and she understood, but this was bigger than him being unable to get a stain out of his curtains. He wouldn’t bother her and instead discard his phone. Maybe bathe.

It took him almost an hour to get into the bath, and even longer to get out. Once he had no more tears to shed, chest sat hollow and heavy. Felt like there was a weight that was causing his ribs to cave in on themselves, eyes vacant and staring at razors and shampoo bottles at the edges of the tub just to look at something.

It was eerily silent; both within the walls and in the confines of his mind. Usually his partner was watching something, playing something, yelling at his phone either at texts his brother sent or at Osamu on the other end of the line. Relentless thoughts weren’t hounding him to do something, just the over - looming feeling of dread and Sakusa knew he couldn’t do anything.

 _No amount of cleaning or organizing can fix this,_ no matter how desperate he was. No matter how desperately he wanted it to.

Kiyoomi was on autopilot, passenger in his own body: dry off, drain the tub, dry his hair, get dressed, brush his teeth, go to bed. But he didn’t sleep and just laid there. On his side: dark eyes staring where Atsumu would’ve been. Pillow tucked under his head, positioned as if it were his chest, ear pressed against it; the illusion shattered. 

There was no heartbeat for him to count.

No subtle breathing, occasional snore.

He wasn’t there. 

For Atsumu, that night was a futile tussle of conflicting thoughts, without Kiyoomi resting on his chest and in the absence of curls tickling the tip of his nose, sleeping was no more than a fleeting chore. Consumed in the dark of an apartment he had run off to like the coward he was, sleep nevertheless eluded him: thoughts continuously drawn to revive the events that happened mere hours ago. Atsumu had buried his face in the crook of his elbow, desperate to catch a whiff of the scent that lingered in their home and instead ended up stifling the cries that elicited at the realization that there was no longer a home he shared.

Dead on the inside but subconsciously awake, he had decided to quietly leave Shoyo’s home when morning broke. Putting on his clothes, he had walked to their apartment with short strides, the fabric of his shirt still slightly damp from the downpour the night prior. A weight settled on his stomach when he neared their house, a familiar lump forming in the back of his throat. He had hesitated, arms hanging limp at his sides before he shut his eyes close and had knocked on the door.

With a slight creak, the door parted open and revealed an equally exhausted Kiyoomi and his mouth had run dry. There were circles underneath his eyes, hair disheveled and entire appearance suggesting that he had not slept the night either. Atsumu had greeted him and said he needed to take a shower, to which Sakusa gave a concise answer of his own before occupying himself with the chores he had assigned to keep his mind off the mess that embodied their relationship.

He could hardly look at him, eyes settling to look over his shoulder instead. This wasn’t their home anymore. Sakusa had to let him in, but he didn’t really want to. As soon as he did, said he needed a shower and crossed the threshold, he didn’t want him to leave again. But he did and stepped to the side, told him that he still had clean towels in the dryer and shuffled towards the kitchen.

He didn’t eat, couldn’t stomach it. Instead he settled for making tea, mug sitting on the counter to steep as he washed the dirty dishes from last night. He remembered the shattered plate and paused, replaying every detail yet again from the top while motionless. If it weren’t for himself being dehydrated, he’d start crying again. Instead, he sucked in a sharp breath and carried on with scrubbing the plates. 

Atsumu had been in the shower for far longer than intended, the water hot and scalding as it run down his back, steam saturating the air and spurts burning the skin. It was only when his fingertips had turned wrinkly, he decided to exit. Once dressed, he had entered the living room where Sakusa joined him.

Footsteps. 

Gaze snapped to Atsumu, plates being stacked in the drying rack and mug of tea long forgotten about where he sat on the couch. Hands occupied themselves with his phone, still looking at him. Skin slightly red from the shower, his eyes tired, hair not fixed but he still loved him. Heart yearned, words catching in his throat as alarms sounded in his mind that he shouldn’t. Maybe they were helping more than harming. 

Brief seconds of silence ensued, stretching what seemed into an eternity. He could not muster up the courage to look at Kiyoomi, afraid that he would break down then and there.

‘I called Osamu. He will be here in about an hour or two, gives me plenty of time to pack my things. I… I will be moving in with him until I can get back to my old apartment, it hasn’t been rented out yet.’

‘Okay.’

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to put up a fight, it was just that he couldn’t. Sakusa couldn’t muster the right words to say to him, couldn’t think of what was right to say, what would make things better. The promise of him getting better wouldn’t be broken if he made it, but it wouldn’t be fast enough. He worries if he tries to fight only for the rocky road of him getting better to cause another snafu. 

Sakusa’s going to try, not to keep Atsumu in his life despite that’s what he wants, but because he was finally aware of how his actions affected others. Blunt speech and intentional antagonizing wouldn’t go away, but he wants to be more considerate. He just didn’t know how yet. 

_Okay._

Atsumu did not know whether to feel relief or to be further aggravated: torn between wanting Sakusa to tell him to stay, that it would work out by some miracle, or be put at ease that it was over with.

By the time he had packed his possessions and stacked them into boxes, Osamu had messaged him, saying he was waiting in the car in front of their house. He had looked around for the last time around their bedroom, hands slowly caressing the duvet, the very one he and his ex-lover had slept underneath, the very one underneath which they had familiarized with each other’s bodies. A hand crept to a pillow and brought it to his face, breathing in the scent of none other than Sakusa Kiyoomi.

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._

Bottom lips quivered, a sob muffled, and he fought the urge to stuff the protector into his bag so he could ease his pain at night.

 _Fuck, Omi, what didja to me…_

Slowly, he had exited the bedroom and walked to the door. From the corner of his eyes, something glistened and with an inquisitive look, he had decided to examine as to what the small pile was that had garnered his attention. Or should he say, the small mess? A broken frame surrounded by shards of glass, smudges of dark crimson smirching the carpet underneath. A gasp hitched in the back of his throat and carefully, he retrieved the picture from between the fragments. Despair encompassed his countenance, eyes almost void when his thumb hovered above Kiyoomi’s face, imagining the softness of his skin that once lingered underneath his hands.

Sakusa’s sights tracked Atsumu from the couch, sitting uncharacteristically slouch for himself. Watched him stop at the photo and he felt a sob beg to be freed, but he remained silent, brows furrowed upwards against his will. He couldn’t watch this. 

It only stung even worse than before. 

Standing, he took short strides across the living room. Sakusa barely caught on to Atsumu taking the picture; which was fine. He was going to clean up the mess later and subsequently throw the photo away out of sheer spite of it all. Maybe it’d help him feel better. 

Drawn from his thoughts and startled, his head snapped into the other direction where Kiyoomi stood, watching him just as doleful. Atsumu crumpled up the picture and stuffed it into his back pocket before standing up, lifting up the box again.

‘Samu’s here.’

‘I see.’

‘Yeah… I… I’ll be going then. Take care.’

And with that, prohibiting any room for Kiyoomi to answer, Atsumu left. 

Yet even with Atsumu and the photo gone, it didn’t help. Phone, half-dead and full of messages from Shoyo wondering if Atsumu made it back okay and his mother wondering where her morning text was with fifteen missed calls. 

He called her back, phone on speaker while he was glued to the contact of his ex-boyfriend. 

‘Sorry.’

‘You should be. Almost gave me a heart attack, I thought you died. Are you okay? Did you forget to set an alarm?’

‘Atsumu and I broke up.’

Silence on the other end at the crack of his voice. His mother offering to come see him, Sakusa immediately declining with bile rising in the back of his throat. His house, to his standards, was a disgusting mess: the bed had not been made, the pillows scattered about, and a pile of papers untidily spread on the coffee table. He couldn’t stand the idea of company. He was a mess. Fingers raked through his hair to pull his bangs back into a short stupid looking ponytail while he told his mother he had to get to chores and hung up. 

Nights were difficult, accumulating maybe two to four hours of sleep a night. Days were spent vigorously cleaning everywhere but that broken glass. He ignored it until the night before practice. Admittedly, it worked to lift some weight off his shoulders but the lingering feeling of seeing him at practice the next morning replaced it. He desperately tried not to think about it.

It was only when he was in the passenger seat and half a mile from their home, Atsumu hit the dashboard hard enough to nearly trigger the airbag to release. Osamu had flinched and almost gone off course, cursing out loud and frantically trying to calm down Atsumu who begged his twin brother to turn back, to take him back home, to bring him to the person he could not help but love.

‘GET YER SHIT TOGETHER, ‘TSUMU, I ALMOST HIT A CAR!’

‘Please, pleasepleaseplease, turn back Osamu, please, I— can’t, please’

‘It’s far too late f’r that don’tcha think? Fuck, when d’ya ever think before makin’ decisions?’

It was another sleepless night that followed. He could not rest without a pressure on his chest and even when he tried hugging a duffel bag with magazines, he remained wide awake, dreading the afternoon that would come. Nothing could replace Kiyoomi’s frame. The warmth that he emanated, the feeling of his broad shoulders and the scent of his hair.

He regretted not bringing the damn pillow protector with him.

They had practice and Atsumu did not even bother putting up a false pretense. Everyone was careful to not snoop about and probe, all quick to catch onto the fact that their setter was most definitely not having their day. When Kiyoomi, equally as tired and quieter than usual, arrived, it had not been difficult to draw conclusions. Even Bokuto himself was quick to arrive at a judgment and that was telling enough about how grave the situation posed itself to be.

The gym was filled with faint chit chatter as opposed to its usually rowdy laughter and loud talks as the team stretched. With the squeaks of his sneakers, the conversations morphed into muffled hushes when their eyes laid on their setter whose mouth was not stretched into a lopsided grin for once. Looks were exchanged between the team members and the air hung thick with tension. Atsumu was idly stretching when his eyes anxiously flickered to the entrance where Kiyoomi heralded his entrance.

He was always first to dress and last to exit. First, because he insisted on dressing in a room where people had not been before and last because the idea of moving through a gathering of people did just not appeal to him either.

And shamelessly, Atsumu stared at him, looked at him as if there was nothing else that could possibly draw his attention away. With scrutinizing eye, he sought after anything that indicated Kiyoomi was just as torn as he was. His boyfriend— no— his ex-bofriend, albeit dressed properly and hair modelled to near perfection, did not seem any less drained and debilitated than he was. Despite the fact his eyelids hung heavy over his eyes, despite the dark circles beneath them, despite the fact how his shoulders were just slightly hunched, Sakusa Kiyoomi was the most beautiful man he had ever had the fortune of laying his eyes on.

His gaze lingered on him a substantial amount of time and if it weren’t for his coach who called out for him, Atsumu was convinced he would keep looking. 

_Ex-boyfriend_ , fuck, he hated the way that sounded.

Sakusa understood why Atsumu hated it when he stared at him. He had felt the holes he was drilling into him with his hazel gaze, those eyes he adored. It took everything within him not to look but he wanted to. Physically having to turn his head away, he tried to find an excuse to be looking another way. _Tie your shoe, fix the tongue, something_. 

Each athlete, each player, every human and animal on the godforsaken earth they dwelled on had their off days. Though, this was no off day, this was Atsumu being pure shit, his skills bested by that one of a toddler who had never even held a ball in their hands, a child who did not even know what the rules of the court were. Every single fucking toss he missed, every step off and every decision miscalculated. It was no wonder he did not try and setting for their libero. Inu-san could have called out for a toss and Atsumu would have probably cooperated, he was that terrible.

Meanwhile, Sakusa put twice the effort into his plays, still playing like normal; he had no choice. He put everything into the game and emotions he couldn’t express, words he couldn’t speak. This was the only place where he had control over his mind. 

His annoyance with Atsumu’s poor plays wasn’t like it usually was; he was understanding. He got it. But he barely spoke to him, calling ‘here’ occasionally and that was all. 

A whistle.

‘Atsumu, maybe sit this set out _?_ Come, T-’

‘Sorry!’ He had yelled, interrupting their coach midsentence. ’ _I’ll— I’ll try._ ’

Foster had pursed his lips and conceded. Atsumu did not play any better.

‘Miya.’ Meian spoke.’Go take a break. You can join us—’

‘One more!’ He interrupted him again, hands balled into fists. ‘I will—’

‘Atsumu!’ Now it was Meian’s turn to interject, nostrils almost flaring: he was _not_ messing around.

Atsumu sucked in his bottom lip, teeth gritting as he physically refrained himself from retaliating in a state of unbridled fury.

‘Fuckin’ shit.’ He had hissed before turning away, stomping from the gym and heading towards the exit.

Sakusa wished Atsumu would’ve sat out. 

Jaw clenched when Meian and him butt heads, eyes screwing shut at his anger causing him to storm off. It reminded him of when he marched out of their home, but he doesn’t want to bring it to attention. He’s thankful he’s facing elsewhere, keen ears listening for his footsteps. 

‘We don’t have a substitute setter.’ Sakusa mumbled, hoping Adriah, Shoyo, anyone would hear him and say something. He doesn’t want to anyone else to set for him, but they can’t exactly practice without one. He also doesn’t want to be the one to try and coax Atsumu back into the gym, it’s better to let him have his space during tantrums, he figures. Months of being a key witness to Miya’s frustrations only helped him understand that. 

When the tumult of his rippling moods had finally reached its summit and he had stormed off to find somewhere to compose himself, all of MSBY Jackals had come to the conclusion they feared the most. The duo had fought before and even then Atsumu had never found himself in such a disposition as he just had. The combustion was not him being petulant, it was Atsumu who was genuinely upset, something that had never occurred before. Even during the days where he was moodier than usual, he refused to let it affect his playstyle. In addition, the fact that Sakusa did not comment about how to let their setter simmer, nor volunteer to follow him in an effort to appease him, was reason enough to believe that there had indeed, been a significant fraying in their relationship. Though, no one was just ready yet to assume the duo had broken up.

Meian sighed, a hand rubbing down his face. He had not wanted to meddle in their affairs from the get-go, refraining himself from expressing how he was opposed to the idea of teammates dating: _you don’t shit where you eat_. This was exactly why. Breakups were already hurtful enough but having to face your ex nearly every single day for hours on end was inconceivable. His eyes lingered on Kiyoomi, contemplating whether to talk to him about what had happened but Shoyo interrupted them, compelled to provide with a solution: ‘Uhm… Why do we not practice 2-on-2 for the time being ? It makes for a nice change.’ Foster had no other chose but to agree for the time being.

Sakusa was thankful for the intervention. Yes, he knew the concept of urging against dating within the team but Sakusa still ignored it. Their bickering never hindered his performance before; he would just swallow it, wouldn’t bring it to the court. Even now, he tried not to. Typically, he’d throw a snarky, ‘quit being childish’ towards Atsumu when it was one of their normal fights, but he was just quiet this time. Glad that people seemed to just move on instead of prying. Lord knows he would’ve if Bokuto was being like this. 

Eyes switch to Hinata when they finally opened and returned to a neutral expression, forced it into place. He could not express, it felt weird. Yet it feels like there’s a perpetual frown that he had to straighten out every couple of minutes. He was paranoid of it. So, his jaw clenched to hold it and he pushes down repeated thoughts of how horrible it was on his teeth. He was focusing too many places at once. It did not feel right to be playing without him, which harbored a feeling that houses itself under his ribs, squeezed his heart. Even still, he missed him. And he hated that he couldn’t shake his feelings, those feelings, easily like he could with everything else. 

He’s had a crush on Miya Atsumu since his second year of high school, since the youth camp. He never acknowledged it until recently, right before they had gotten together, but his cousin was always eager to remind him: _wow, you really got together with Atsumu after all this time? You’ve had a crush on him since that camp, right? Oh man, I can’t believe you still like him._

In which… he couldn’t deny. But that was the past. These days, the ones he’s living in, just proved to be painful. 

Rushing home wasn’t something he did out of necessity, just out of wanting to be away from Atsumu. Not that it eased his heartache, but it didn’t help to see his face when the wound was still fresh. There was no routine for him to follow yet and it drove him to want to rip his hair out by the roots. Sakusa wishes he could return to the one he lived by before he moved in / but it didn’t feel right. 

Nothing did. 

The only times Sakusa was “himself” was on the court, just like it was when he was a child and the only sense of normalcy he housed was when he leapt to spike, when he was doing diving drills then promptly sanitizing his hands, stretching by himself and practicing serves. He’d overwork himself just so he’d be exhausted when he got home, shower and sleep from eight to four am. It wasn’t ideal and he slept poorly because of it, missed meals. It drove him insane, but… as long as he worked well on the team, it was fine. 

Breakfast was often skipped in favour of just a tea. He missed the sight of Atsumu making eggs for him. Kiyoomi didn’t like being in the kitchen much anymore. He tried to adapt to a new schedule, fix his sleep in those months that he had to work on himself. He didn’t know where to start, truly. With himself and the chores. Weeks went by where he neglected his kitchen chores, only doing the dishes and moving on. Get used to the kitchen again, that was a start. It took him some time, but he was easing into it. The first week was hard, giving up in the middle of it. The second week was easier, completing some tasks that weren’t labour intensive. The third week, and he was in his element again. 

The days that followed did not dull the pain, Atsumu’s heart remained a shattered disarray of pieces, shards which kept piercing into him. The ache came in waves, depriving him of his appetite as well as sleep. He deemed it beyond the bounds of possibility to mend himself back together. How could he become whole again when the most important part was missing? How could he be complete in the absence of Sakusa Kiyoomi? The roots had been long planted, its vines now suffocating him. He no longer felt like himself, reduced to mere fragments only. He tried to remind himself of the reason why he had broken up in the first place, forcing his mind to replay the words _‘Move, move.’_ Though they amounted to nothing, he ended up yearning to hear more of his voice, memories morphing into fonder ones instead.

Days eventually became weeks and despite the desire to halt time, life continued. Atsumu had suffered from many wounds caused by playing: a broken thumb, a sprained ankle, a dislocation at worst, though none of them outdid the emotional injury he carried with him every day. He had come to resent the shop next to his apartment that had packages of Umeboshi at the front and the color yellow had grown to be more hideous in his eye than it already was. The tea he drank in the mornings no longer tasted the same and the bag of tea leaves remained untouched ever since. It was then he realized he did not even like tea, he had just helped himself to some whenever Kiyoomi did.

Kiyoomi.

The name felt heavy on his tongue, reminding him that he was more than just flesh and bone, prompting he was capable of feeling pain far worse than a jab to the stomach. His head continued to hang low the days to come, heavy with thoughts of a lover he could no longer call his own.

_There is nothing to return to, Atsumu, leave it._

_But what if I can build it from scratch?_

Sometimes he would show up to practice with bruises on his knuckles and no one dared ask. It remained tense on the court, though things gradually livened up. Bokuto would finally dare and yell his chants when skipping over to Atsumu and Shoyo would occasionally ask him to set. Slowly yet surely, he found himself again, the broken pieces forming into an image that vaguely depicted him, little by little. 

Atsumu’s reformed self didn’t go unnoticed, but Sakusa still didn’t speak much to him. Nice kill, nice serve and all the like. Simple things that had meaning but nothing past the game. Dark eyes stuck forward instead of glancing between sets, acting the same as he did, just without the criticizing of Atsumu’s tosses to him. Sure, it was evident in his delays in hitting, but it didn’t carry much weight. 

Music poured from speakers in a cultivated playlist, trying to focus on his chores instead of the tension at practice earlier. It worked for a while, on his knees while he was scrubbing away at his fridge’s interior. It’s quiet, but he hums. Mumbles with the song, its instruments. He remembers he would roll his eyes when Atsumu would tease him for it or try to sing along without knowing the lyrics. It tears at him, pausing ministrations to try and force it out of his mind. He can’t, especially when the song fades and he hears the first few notes of a song Miya dropped into the playlist. 

He doesn’t move from that spot for hours. Heart carved open as memory played in his mind : the first time Miya put it on for him, how he said he didn’t hate it. The second time when he picked it while helping Kiyoomi with chores. When he grabbed Sakusa’s hand and he pouted while Atsumu lead a poorly choreographed dance. 

It was too much, too much to think about. 

Shaky fingers hovered over the song, but he couldn’t remove it. They switched to their empty chat logs, watching the keyboard like a message would appear, the right words. It was a terrible idea; one he didn’t commit to.

Then a bubble popped up, a typing indicator. He closed the texting app, bringing his phone to his chest where his heart and stomach dropped to the floor. No buzz followed, notifying a new message and he doesn’t know if he’s relieved or torn. 

He hadn’t opened Atsumu’s contact since. His emotions found home elsewhere, requesting a friend when he had nowhere else to turn to. His mother was out of the question, as were the Jackals. Wakatoshi proved to be a great listener and that is, when he asked if he could talk. 

It proved to help a lot comparatively to when Sakusa shoves it down until he combusts at the seams, and that’s when he started to learn everything wrong with how he conducted his life before. Kiyoomi Sakusa never once tried to be open past blunt words, instead choosing those harsh ones over the flowery ones that help him express, communicate better. Share that he’s okay, but not everything’s okay. He’s fine, but he feels an empty pit in his core that won’t go away. 

[ CONTACT : Wakatoshi ] Hey. How’re you doing ??  
[ CONTACT : Kiyoomi ] Today’s not great.   
[ CONTACT : Wakatoshi ] Did something happen ??  
[ CONTACT : Kiyoomi ] I was listening to music while cleaning my fridge and one of Miya’s favourite songs came on.  
[ CONTACT : Kiyoomi ] Couldn’t finish, so my fridge is still dirty.  
[ CONTACT : Wakatoshi ] Oh.  
[ CONTACT : Wakatoshi ] Remove the song from the playlist.  
[ CONTACT : Kiyoomi ] I couldn’t.

It seemed stiff and it was. They weren’t exactly easy conversationalists, but it helped more than it harmed. Sakusa felt better after getting it off of his chest, conversation merging into something more light - hearted and facile. About the game they were having next week. Friendly banter that sparked up feelings of rivalry he couldn’t shake and that made him feel normal within the confines of his barren home for the first time in months. He slept easier, despite pregame jitters. 

But then it all came tumbling and crashing down.

They had played a match against Schweiden Adlers and by some miracle, won. It had been just a little short of two months and even in the face of a breakup that was no longer as recent (even though it hurt just as the same) Atsumu performed exceptionally well. Volleyball had become his outlet, fury and exasperation emptied into the spike of every ball; his emotions which had remained pent-up discharged into every service ace. Everyone had assumed this was Atsumu who was reforming himself, no one noticed how these behavioral changes suggested nothing but the evident regression of his mental state. His eyes no longer harnessed the mischievous tinker they once did, now replaced by a void that tunneled into a darkness that slowly engulfed him from the inside.

After all, when did Atsumu Miya express his feelings? When did he not bottle up his emotions and sorrow, let it consume him at night and deprive him of his rest?

Kiyoomi never let him. Kiyoomi always compelled him to vent whenever something troubled him. Kiyoomi would notice irregularities in his heartbeat when he laid on his chest at night and proceed to ask what distressed him. He would not sleep until Atsumu told him was it was that kept him up.

He shook his head, damp rivulets of blondes dancing in front of his eyes. The shutter of cameras as well as bright flashes drew him from his thoughts, many interviewers pushing through with their microphones and cameras. He walked off the court after paying his respects when he noticed how Kiyoomi had staggered behind, engaged in a conversation with none other than Ushijima Wakatoshi. He saw their lips move, but due to the distance could not make up anything from the conversation.

‘ Good game, Sakusa.’

‘Hm,’ Sakusa smiled a little, curling at the corners as he shook his hand. The niceties were welcome, warming, but ultimately felt unfulfilling. ‘Good game.’ Their conversation melted into a brief asking of how he’s holding up today, expression dropped a bit as he explains he’s alright but winning on a team where he felt out of place recently is bittersweet. 

_Bittersweet_ _._

That was the first time he had used that word. It hung with him, something he had to google to understand used in a sentence. He hoped he used it right, he’s certain that he did. It felt right. 

Atsumu did not know what his expression had looked like, did not know that it was the peril he had oozed that might have alerted Kiyoomi. He held his gaze for just moments before striding off, ignoring the mass of photographers and interviewers who had been calling out for his attention.

‘Miya! Is it true you broke up with Sakusa?’

He halted in his steps, sweat sliding down his temple.

‘Miya, has this interfered with your playstyle in any way? The fans long to know!’

Shoyo leveled him a stare with bated breath, lips slightly agape at the mention of the breakup. Not even their team had brought the subject up for talk and he feared what kind of response it would elicit from their setter. His eyes darted around the place, frantically in search of anyone that could prevent what he feared might happen.

‘Miya, is it true th—’

He had turned around, nostrils flaring. The anger had boiled deep within him, churning and crashing into him strong as a tide, lapping onto his senses and rendering his common sense useless. It was smoldering, all the suppressed emotions threatening to untether with the single reel of a punch. Had it not been for Bokuto, who had dashed across the court to make it in time and flung his arm over Atsumu’s shoulder, he would have besmirched his team’s reputation.

‘Hey hey hey!’ The spiker had cheerfully exclaimed, visibly experiencing difficulty in an effort to keep Atsumu restrained in his grip. ‘I think that was about it for today! We are incred— ouche, ahaha— tired! Any questions can be left for later! See ya!’

Sakusa’s brow kept tensing, hearing the calamity behind him from reporters, Bokuto’s booming voice trying to keep Atsumu’s frustration sewn together at the seams, stitching them together with a dull needle. Ushijima’s glances over his shoulder didn’t help, either. The spiker’s stomach tied in a knot; he didn’t want to look, think about it. But he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it when he got home.

And he wasn’t. He was trying to be better, and he felt it. His dark circles faded; his sleep fixed. But he still felt hollow, especially when he got home. Would sit and stare, not watching, at the television. If you asked him if he enjoyed a show that was on, he couldn’t answer. His defense was dissociation, and he was hardly home in his own head when he crossed the threshold. He rested in bed; eyes shut but the sounds from the source he didn’t dare look towards kept blaring. The invasive questioning, the way he heard Bokuto’s voice after his quick steps, he could only imagine what happened. Atsumu’s temper almost got the best of him. 

His lips pout, his ex-boyfriend’s temper never scared him, but now it just upset him. He heard it all again. 

_‘Nothin’s workin’, Kiyoomi, fuckin’ nothing is.’_ __

_‘the routines ‘rdriving me crazy and you… you…’_ __

_‘I never know when you’ll be … THAT.’_ __

Brows knit and he shoved the sheets away to take another shower, his second one since getting home. Not to clean himself, just to try and shock his system. His hair tied back; a new change of clothes folded on the rack to change into. 

He missed him. 

Two months wasn’t a substantial amount of time, but it was not short either. He feels like he’d changed, but there are days where he got home, frenzied and frazzled, trying to do everything as quickly as possible or else something god awful he couldn’t describe would happen to his sisters, his brother, his parents; he doesn’t know. But those days were fewer and far between. Self-help guides bookmarked and therapy sessions booked, revisiting his psychiatrist to see if there’s anything else that’ll help with his dosage. He’s trying, always had been. But the area of communication is finally being addressed. 

Another internal debate, arguing if he should text Atsumu, he wants to. He stood in his fresh clothes, staring at his phone. He kept hovering over the contact, but he could’t press the button. He’d sleep on it, as best as he can. 

The last time he got scolded by a coach was in High School after having fought with Osamu. Atsumu’s neck was reddened in embarrassment when Foster had isolated him from the rest to reprimand him about his manners as well as outburst. ‘Don’t make me sub you out, Miya.’ He had threatened. ‘It would be a shame to have someone less experienced play in your stead but with the way you are going, you’ll leave me no choice.’

Fucking bullshit he had wanted to retaliate with but had decided against.

That night, he kept replaying the image: Sakusa’s hand in Ushijima’s, the smile on his lips, Ushijima’s thumb on the back of his hand. Sakusa’s hand in Ushijima’s. Sakusa smiling. Sakusa Sakusa Sakusa.

‘FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!’

He kicked his chicken chair onto the ground.

_‘Miya! Is it true you broke up with Sakusa ?’_

The voice of the reporter tormented his brain, thoughts revolving around the events. Atsumu clawed onto his scalp, calloused hands repeatedly hitting against sides of his head in vain attempts to muffle them.

‘SHUT UP!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!’

He threw the pile of magazines of the table, breathing hallowing itself and the tears streaking his face after having come undone in an unbroken stream. The frayed thread from which he hung tore completely at long last along with his mental wellbeing, hysterical sobs shaking his already thinned frame. He clutched onto his chest, struggling to regain the composure he could barely maintain for all those weeks as his shoulders jolted, whimpers and howls escaping his throat.

‘Omi…’ He collapsed onto his knees, forehead resting onto the hardwood floor as he felt his insides be ripped apart, choking out a name he had not dared call out for. ‘Omi… Omi please…’

‘I fucked up… Omi… I fucked up so bad…’

A hiccup, an estranged cry leaving him at the realization this was him breaking, this was Atsumu Miya submitting to his despondency, inevitably and as result of subdued emotions resurfacing. He rocked himself gently, hands that were clutched onto his chest wrapping around himself, as if his arms were Sakusa’s. As if it was the latter that cradled him and soothed him.

‘Omi… I miss you s’much…’

‘Omi… where ‘rya…’

‘Why aren’t you ‘ere with me ?’

God, he felt miserable and he hated himself for it.

‘I want ya back.’

I need you back.

_I am going to get you back._

He tipped his head slightly, eyes trailing to the clock: 23:42. Today was Friday. He knew Kiyoomi would be asleep, Saturday morning often left unoccupied for early grocery trips when supermarkets did not bustle about with people. Atsumu sniffled, the back of his hand wiping away the tears that had gathered anew in his eyes. He staggered to his feet, grabbing his jacket just before he left his house, adamant on relieving himself of the ache that had festered in his heart for so long. Resolute on winning back the man that still had him seized.

He ran. 

He ran until he felt his lungs pierce and the muscles in his legs tear. He felt himself become faint-headed at some point, the pavement that lay before him shriveling into tarmac ribbon; dancing and curving into unusual angles. Almost dispossessed of his balance due to the potholed concrete, his knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed onto the hard ground.

But he persevered.

_I need to home. I need to go back home._

He was not referring to the place, not referring to the apartment in which he lived. He was referring to the person, the individual that made him feel at home no matter where it may be. His throat was parched, and his steps resonated through the vacated streets, as if they were made empty for just him to maneuver through with considerable speed that surpassed eagles which soared indigo skies. His ankles were tightly coiled springs, but his blood ran hot as he ran and turned corners until a familiar building entered his sight. Atsumu did not even remember the flight of stairs he had climbed, suddenly standing in front of a door he had last exited months ago.

His hand raised and he knocked.

_3 times._

Alarm set, phone discarded and Sakusa had laid down for the night to distract from the constant repeat of the man he loved. He tried to make a list of what he needed from the store tomorrow until exhaustion caught up with him. Sleep interrupted only about an hour and a half in, he jerked at the aggressive knocking. First, his mind reeled, and anxiety spiked, secondly, the three knocks. It was small, and he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he did. He half expects it to be his neighbours, complaining at him for something he was not responsible for, but he hoped it was him. 

Head ducked to look through the peephole, his breath hitching. As much as he wanted it, Sakusa’s torn. He hesitated, hand on the doorknob. What would he say? What would he do? It won’t fix itself, would he regret it tomorrow morning ? Would he leave again when he remembers why he left? 

Sakusa’s not a stupid man. 

Brain over heart every day. 

_‘Yer heartless, omi-omi.’_ __

Brain over heart. 

So why was he opening the door? His heart celebrated, but raced, anxiety crawling up his skin and confusion settling over his features. Concern as he looked down at Atsumu, his heart tightened. 

He had counted until sixteen when a shuffle of steps resounded from the other side, the door creaking open to reveal none other than Sakusa Kiyoomi he had most definitely roused from his sleep. Atsumu was still supporting himself on his knees, audibly panting and looking up at him wide-eyed.

‘Kiyoomi.’

He huffed, slowly straightening himself, hands reaching out to him, palms open and fingers stretched wide, just mere inches away from his face before they curled up into fists, withdrawing,

‘Fuck, Kiyoomi—Kiyoomi I—’

It hurt, but it felt so good, it felt so good to say his name. He wanted to say his name for the days, weeks, months, years to come. He wanted to look at his face and say his name until the end of time

_‘Omi-omi, Omi-omi, Omi-omi!’_

_‘What? What do you want? Will you shut up? I am trying to sleep.’_

_‘I love you.’_

_‘Hmph.’_

_‘Wha’s that ? Ya better say it back.’_

_‘I love you too.’_

_‘Heh. Good night, baby.’_

The same lump appeared in his throat, nearly obstructing his breathing as well as string of words from coming forth. His bottom lip quivered, chest tightening and behind a hand he stifled a sob, face buried into the crook of his elbow.

‘Kiyoomi, I love you. I love you and you only. Fuck, Kiyoomi, what did I do? I fucked up, I fucked us up did I not? I…’

He choked back a cry, arm lowering and hands reaching out to grab onto him, though falling limp at his sides as the tears came uncorked in an endless downpour.

‘I… I can’t do this anymore, Kiyoomi, I can’t. I miss ya, I want ya back, I—I—’ He hiccupped, ‘I want ta make this work, please, please let’s make ‘t work. Omi, please.’ The last part came out as a desperate cry, legs almost giving out from underneath. It did not matter whether it was due to exhaustion or vehemence of his feelings. He leaned against the door frame, being as close as he possible could. Tears continued to brim his eyes, vision a blur.

‘Please… please take me back… I beg you, Kiyoomi, please. I can’t— I miss ya… Fuck… I love you… please.’

_He loves him_

He collapsed, knees giving in and face buried into the palms of his hand, every atom of his being screaming in unison. He cried in such a desolate way but no longer cared, pining to hear Kiyoomi tell him he still felt just the same. Anytime he tried to draw a breath, it hitched, followed by another strangled cry.   
  
‘Please… Omi… Say y’still love me…’

His voice, his name from his mouth. It felt like he was about to throw up, like he was suffocating but he didn’t want him to stop talking. So, he let him talk. Brows furrow and his mouth hangs open. 

‘Atsumu, ’ Sakusa whispers before he starts to speak, hand stretching towards him, fingers curling. 

_‘Can I touch ya_ _?_ _’_ __

_‘What_ _?_ _’_ __

_‘Can I touch ya. Yer face, dumbass._ _’_ __

_‘Don’t call me that. Yes._ _’_ __

_‘Wait, fer real_ _?_ _’_ __

_‘Yes._ _’_ _His hands were so shaky, and his touch was feather light like he was made of glass and he’d break him. Sakusa grabbed his wrist and pressed his palm against his wrist, ‘I’m not going to break.’_

_‘Yer skin’s so soft,’_ __

_I love you and you only._ The words scorch in his brain, repeating dozens of times. _Atsumu loved him. Atsumu still loved him. Only him_.

Elation but his heart breaks in his chest. He doesn’t find him pathetic, but he’s hurting. Just like Sakusa’s been hurting. He hates to see him in pain, absolutely detests it. He doesn’t know what to say, mouth and throat running dry. 

_He loves_ _him._

_He’s never stopped._ __

The love of his life, pleading and crying. Sakusa felt guilty for the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to comfort him, and he’s crying, too. When he drops to his knees, his heart shatters. He can’t pretend to be strong, either. 

The spiker sits on his knees, not caring about snot or tears, when the last time he washed his hands was. Cold fingers peeled his hands away from his face, relishing in the warmth of his skin. He was deathly quiet despite he was crying himself, wanting to break into sobs. His breath escaped in a shaky exhale; eyes glued to where he laces their fingers together. His smile is sad, but he loves him. 

‘‘tsumu,’ Kiyoomi starts, a deep inhale and he thinks again, collects his thoughts and words them correctly. Overthinking is his middle name, truly. ‘I missed you.’

He loves him. 

‘I’m sorry.’ He doesn’t want to hear that, but Sakusa owes it to him, ‘You… you didn’t fuck anything up.’

God, he had missed him. 

Never the bold, Sakusa found it himself to tug Atsumu into a tight hug. His arms hold him close, breathing in another deep breath before his resolve breaks and shoulders shook as he let out a choked sob, fingers curling to grip his jacket. He missed touching someone, his missed touching Atsumu. Every emotion he felt washed over him, overwhelming his senses; the sound of his cries, the feel of his warmth, the smell of his shampoo. It all came back to Atsumu. 

‘I love you.’ His voice cracks, his clinging bordering onto a crushing hug. He repeats it, ‘I love you so much, ‘tsumu. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

It trails into muttering, hands unfurling to shift only to grip the fabric of his jacket again. He holds him like he’s going to disappear as soon as he lets go, fearing that might be the case. He sniffles, eyes opening enough to see he’s still here. His touch trails up his back, his neck, only for his hands to cup his face, a thumb rolling over a plump bottom lip and have him look at him when he says it one more time:

‘I love you.’


End file.
